


And Men Below, and Saints Above

by Robin Hood (kjack89)



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Death Threats, Despite these tags this is mostly, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Referenced canonical character death, Saint Medals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/Robin%20Hood
Summary: "Here," Carisi says, pulling something out from under his shirt and tugging it over his head.Barba takes it and looks at Carisi questioningly, running a thumb over the small, silver medal, warm from Carisi's skin. “It’s a Saint Dominic medal,” Carisi says. “Doesn’t really protect against anything but my ma got it for me when I graduated from the Academy. Said it’d keep me safe.” He shrugs. “Worked so far.”“Carisi—” Barba starts, but Carisi shakes his head and doesn’t even let him get his protest out.“I’ll sleep better at night knowing you’ve got it,” he says with a small, strained smile. “Please.”





	And Men Below, and Saints Above

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AHumanFemale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHumanFemale/gifts).



> For AHumanFemale, who insisted this be turned into more than just a headcanon, and who was also lovely enough to beta.
> 
> For Barba appreciation week. Barely made it in before the end of the week! Title is from a Walter Scott quote: "Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below, and saints above: For love is heaven, and heaven is love."
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

Barba is refusing to look at Carisi, and for good reason. "The threats started after I indicted the three cops who shot Terrence Reynolds."

Barba's voice is flat, matter-of-fact, and it doesn't take a genius to read every thought playing across Detective Rollins' face in response. She glances at Carisi. "I'm calling Benson."

Barba swings around in his chair and stares up at the ceiling. He can feel Carisi’s gaze, can feel the detective leaning into his personal space, but he can't bring himself to look over at him. He doesn't want to see the worry, stark against Carisi’s features, or, worse, the disappointment that Barba didn't tell him about the threats sooner.

He shouldn't take it personally, Barba thinks, keeping his arms crossed tightly across his chest. Barba didn't tell anyone.

But he somehow thinks that wouldn't comfort Carisi at all.

Rollins swivels suddenly, hanging up the phone. "We gotta go," she tells Carisi, who instantly straightens to frown at her. "Hostage situation at the Munsons."

"Is the Lieu alright?" Carisi asks.

Rollins jerks her shoulders in a shrug and leaves without another word. Carisi glanced back at Barba, who quickly looks away. "It seems like the lecture will have to wait," Barba says pointedly.

But Carisi doesn't lecture him, or admonish him, or even give him the _"I'm not mad, just disappointed"_ speech that Barba half-expects.

Instead, he loosens his tie with one hand and unbuttons the top button on his shirt with the other. "Here," he says, pulling something out from under his shirt and tugging it over his head.

Barba takes it and looks at Carisi questioningly, running a thumb over the small, silver medal, warm from Carisi's skin. “It’s a Saint Dominic medal,” Carisi says. “Doesn’t really protect against anything but my ma got it for me when I graduated from the Academy. Said it’d keep me safe.” He shrugs. “Worked so far.”

“Carisi—” Barba starts, but Carisi shakes his head and doesn’t even let him get his protest out.

“I’ll sleep better at night knowing you’ve got it,” he says with a small, strained smile. “Please.”

Well, Barba can’t really argue with that.

So he nods and tucks the medal into the pocket of his vest. Only then does Carisi leave, though not without tossing another look at Barba before finally leaving.

Barba turns back to his desk and grabs his cellphone to send a quick text to Liv: _Keep me updated on what’s happening with the Munsons_.

Then he gets back to work, and tries to put everything else from his mind.

When he gets home that night, he puts it on, letting it hang around his neck with the crucifix his abuelita gave him for his confirmation. They go well together. Almost like they belong.

And when he gets the text from Olivia the next day telling him that Sgt. Mike Dodds is dead, his fingers automatically find the medal underneath his finely woven shirt and brightly colored tie and holds onto it, tightly.

At the bar for Dodds’ memorial, after he and Carisi raise a glass in Mike’s honor, Barba hesitates before reaching up to finger the chain of the medal through his shirt. “I should give this back to you,” he says, unusually subdued at the stark reminder of not just his mortality but Carisi’s in the smiling, frozen face of Mike Dodds’ photo.

Carisi gives him a look and takes a sip of his beer. “Why?” he asks. “I just told you, we haven’t caught Heredio yet.”

“And you’re likely more in danger every single day than I’ll ever be.”

Carisi shrugs and looks at the picture of MIke before sighing, heavily. “We know what we’re getting into when we take this job,” he tells Barba, in a tone that brooks no argument. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

Barba thinks about all the criminals he’s put away, all of the enemies he’s made, and he manages a half-smile. “Didn’t I?” he asks.

Carisi rolls his eyes but manages a smile as well.

And the medal remains on its chain around Barba’s neck.

Even when they do arrest Heredio, the medal remains in its place against Barba’s chest. Mainly because he sees the dark circles around Carisi’s eyes when he tells him that they’re escalating his security detail, and Barba knows that if this small medal hanging around his neck provides Carisi just a sliver of solace, then it’s totally worth it.

When the threats finally do pass, Barba knows that he no longer has an excuse to hold onto the medal, but he keeps finding excuses not to give it back: Carisi was with someone in his office, and Barba didn’t want to make it awkward, for instance; or Barba paused by Carisi’s desk but Rollins was listening in; or even just that Carisi smiled at him one day when he caught sight of the silver chain as Barba loosened his tie after court, and Barba didn’t want to ruin the moment.

So he keeps wearing it, the small silver medal warm against his chest, just over his heart.

(And even though he would never in a million years admit it, there’s a small part of him that likes carrying a piece of Carisi close to him. Close to his heart.)

When Barba hears about the Tom Cole shooting, it’s from Rollins, who delivers the report to him casually, as if the thought of an armed suspect holding a gun to Carisi’s head wasn’t something that would shake his very foundations, his hand flying to his chest to grip the medal bearing Carisi’s name. “Is he ok?” he demands, earning little more than a strange look from Rollins.

“Cole? No, he’s dead—”

“Not Cole,” Barba interrupts, his voice strained and strange-sounding to his own ears. “Carisi. Is he ok?”

Rollins frowns, as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to her. “He’s fine, he’s at the precinct right now talking with IAB—”

But Barba doesn’t let her finish, just takes off, not caring that he’s leaving a very confused detective in his office. His only thought is that he should’ve given this stupid medal back to Carisi a long time ago, that Carisi needs protection so much more than he does, and that he’ll never forgive himself if anything happened to him.

When he gets to the precinct, the elevator seems to creep agonizingly slowly up, and Barba bounces on the balls of his feet, full of nervous energy. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say to Carisi, how he’s going to possibly explain the fact that he _had_ to see him, had to verify for himself that Carisi was fine, and had to finally return this medal that he’s worn over his heart but was never really his to keep.

Even if he was going to feel lonely without it.

He gets off the elevator and almost runs straight into a semi-dazed Carisi. Barba doesn’t hesitate, just grabs Carisi’s arm and asks sharply, “Are you alright?”

Carisi blinks at him as Barba’s eyes scan him from head to toe, taking in his slightly wet hair and the damp pink stain on the collar of his shirt, and his grip on Carisi’s elbow tightens. “I’m—” Carisi starts, though he breaks off as if he can’t find anything to say, his expression oddly closed.

It doesn’t matter that he can’t seem to find something to say. Barba understands, because he’s slow to come up with what he wants to say as well. So he settles for tugging the medal out from under his shirt and starting to take it off. “Here,” he says, voice unusually hoarse. “I’m so sorry, I should've—”

“Hey,” Carisi says, cutting him off with a gentle hand on his arm. “Don’t. Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?” Barba repeats sharply. “When you could’ve died today and I’ve been carrying around this _thing_ that’s supposed to protect you?” 

Carisi shrugs. “It did what it was supposed to,” he says simply. “I’m alive. Besides—” He colors slightly as he pulls a different medal out from under his own shirt. “I, uh, I kinda got a replacement.”

Barba frowns at it. “That’s not St. Dominic—” he starts, and Carisi shrugs again, his blush deepening.

“No, uh, it's—”

“St. Raphael,” Barba answers for him.

He hasn’t been to Mass in so long that he has no explanation for why he would know that with just one look, but for some reason, the idea just makes sense.

Carisi looks at him nervously. “I just, uh, I figured since you had mine…” He trails off. “I’m sorry, it’s dumb, I should’ve…”

But it’s Barba’s turn to stop him, reaching out almost despite himself to gently rub a light finger over the silver medal hanging around Carisi’s neck. “It suits you,” he hears himself say, though he has no intention of saying it. 

Carisi smiles slightly at that, a pale approximation of his normal grin and the only sure sign thus far that he was shaken by the events of the day. “Thanks,” he says, tucking the medal back under his shirt and patting it once, though he turns the gesture into smoothing the front of his shirt. “Hey, uh, you wanna get a drink? I could really use one.”

Again, it’s almost without intending to that Barba replies, “Sure.”

“Good,” Carisi says, managing a real smile. “Then you’re buying.”

“That seems only fair,” Barba allows, “Dominick.”

Carisi’s smile widens. “Absolutely, Rafael.” He takes a step back and gestures toward the elevator. “After you.”

And as they stand together in the elevator, a little too closely to be truly casual, when Carisi’s arm brushes against his, Barba lightly touches the medal back in its place underneath his shirt, and wonders only for a moment when he had started thinking of it as having a place.

When they get to the bar, Barba orders them a round of shots, followed by beer. If Carisi is surprised that Barba is drinking something other than scotch, he doesn’t mention it, merely clinking his shot glass against Barba’s and draining it.

Then, beers in hand, they head over to a booth, their knees knocking together as they sit. Barba takes a long pull from his beer and desperately searches for a neutral topic. He doesn’t think of one. “So, St. Dominic,” he starts instead.

Carisi shrugs. "Like I told you, he doesn't really protect against anything."

"He's the patron Saint of astronomers," Barba offers, and when Carisi looks at him, surprised, he says wryly, "I do know how to use Google, Detective."

Carisi opens his mouth to say something and promptly closes it again, an inexplicable blush coloring his cheeks, and Barba smirks. "What?" he asks.

"Nothing," Carisi says, and when Barba just quirks an eyebrow at him, relents, "It was gonna be a line. And a bad one at that."

"Now you _have_ to tell me," Barba says, interest piqued. "Come on, it can't be that bad."

Carisi's blush deepens and he looks determinedly at the ground as he mutters, "Astronomy? Well, I can leave you seeing stars."

Barba stares at him, his smirk frozen somewhere between amusement and secondhand embarrassment. "You were right about one thing," he manages finally, reaching out for his beer to take a drink. "That's a line all right."

Carisi's eyes flit up to his before he looks away, the corners of his mouth twitching towards a grin. "Not a successful one," he says, though he pitches it like a question.

"Jury's still out."

This time Carisi manages to hold his gaze, his smile widening. “Yeah?” he asks, a hopeful lilt to the question.

Barba just shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. He hesitates, not wanting to ruin what's been a decent night thus far but needing to at least offer Carisi the opportunity. “Do you want to talk about today?”

Carisi’s smile disappears so suddenly that Barba feels like someone just blotted out the sun, and he shrugs and looks away. “Not much to say,” Carisi says, after a long moment.

Barba says nothing, just picks up his beer and takes a sip, waiting for Carisi to continue. “You know, I always thought that I'd, I dunno, think of my family or the squad, you, all the people I love, or maybe all the things I wanna do but haven't had time to,” Carisi muttered, his gaze distance. “I didn't think of anything but that gun against my head.”

Barba’s heart stuttered when Carisi casually referred to him as one of the people he loves, and it takes him a minute to respond. “I think that’s understandable,” he offers. “I somehow doubt I’d come up with something particularly poetic to think about if my life was in imminent danger.”

“Really?” Carisi asks, clearly skeptical. “Because last I checked, when your life was in imminent danger, you somehow managed to write your home address down for the guy threatening to kill you.” He gives Barba a small smile. “Besides, I doubt anything could get you to shut up, even your life being in danger.”

Barba rolls his eyes, but Carisi’s not done. “I could’ve lost you that day, you realize,” he says, after taking a swig of beer. “And all because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.”

At first, Barba’s insulted by the insinuation that he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut, so he shifts the focus. “ _You_ could’ve lost me?” he repeats.

It has its desired effect.

Carisi flushes slightly and looks away. “I mean, _we_ could’ve lost you,” he mumbles. “The squad.”

Barba picks at the label of his beer bottle before saying, his voice steady, “I could’ve lost you today.” Carisi looks up so quickly that Barba’s worried he’s given himself whiplash. “And all I could think was that it would have been my fault for holding onto this medal.”

Carisi’s flush settles into his cheeks and he shakes his head before saying, his voice forcibly light, “Well, St Raphael kept me safe, and that’s the important thing.”

“Just like you kept me safe.”

Barba hasn’t had nearly enough alcohol to use it as the excuse he almost blurts out when Carisi stares at him, as the excuse for the words he never intended on saying out loud. But then Carisi’s lips twitch. “You mean St. Dominic,” he says dismissively, and Barba recognizes it for the offer at an out that it is.

But he doesn’t want an out.

He hasn’t wanted an out since he first slipped the St. Dominic medal over his head, since he first let it hang around his neck and settle into place over his heart. If he were being honest, he hasn’t wanted an out for far longer than that.

“Him too,” Barba says casually. “But mostly you. Not just with Heredio, and my protective detail. You make me feel safe.”

Carisi’s smile returns in full force, and Barba can’t help but smile in return. “So what you’re telling me is that you’re not worried in here?” Carisi asks, and Barba recognizes his own words being echoed back at him.

He manages to hold back the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m not worried when I’m with you,” he says, before adding, reaching up to touch the medal under his shirt, “Or with this.”

Carisi lays a hand against his own chest, his smile softening. “Yeah,” he says, his thumb moving over what Barba can only assume is the Saint Raphael medal around his own neck. “I know what you mean.”

The conversation turns to other things from there, idle chatter really, but Barba can’t help but glance every now and then to Carisi’s chest, imagining the medal hanging there, mirroring his own.

Imagining himself there, tucked close to Carisi’s heart.

The very thought has the blood in his veins pounding.

When they walk out together, Carisi shoves his hands in his pockets as if he isn’t otherwise sure what to do with them. “Thanks,” he offers. “For...well, for everything.”

“It was the least I could do,” Barba says, with a half-smile. “And thanks to you as well, Dominick.”

The second usage of the name leaves Carisi smiling. “Rafael—” he starts, but Barba doesn’t let him finish, instead closing the space between them and kissing him.

Carisi seems surprised at first, almost frozen, but then wraps an arm around Barba, tugging him closer, and opening his mouth against Barba’s.

Barba eagerly reciprocates, skimming his hands slowly up Carisi’s sides, resting them against the planes of his chest. And when his finger catches on the small metal disc hidden by Carisi’s shirt, Barba can’t help but caress it with the pad of his thumb.

The idea of Carisi wanting to keep him close is a marvel.

Almost as much a marvel as Barba’s sudden realization how very perfect that thought could be.


End file.
